


you're the coldest form of warm

by teaspoonofdoom



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Drug Abuse, I mean it's not too graphic, I'll go with minimalistic for the tittle this time, M/M, Mild Gore, also if you know the song take note this has a completely different vibe, but like, it may look like no dialogue but stick around it's not, two fics in one week?? don't get used to it I've been writting this one since fev 23rd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 10:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14210739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaspoonofdoom/pseuds/teaspoonofdoom
Summary: A voice, not unlike his own, has been screaming in his head but it's unintelligible, a white noise, ever since he fired the gun. He hoped it would stop after Oswald's body hit the water. No such luck. The last time he recalls his thoughts being organised and in his complete control was way before he found out (the penny dropped indead and made the ground crack); before he was even betrayed, he suspects, and what a shame it is to have looked for comfort where death and destruction come out of; before Kristen reappeared. He hid it then and he hides it to this day.





	you're the coldest form of warm

**Author's Note:**

> Because who doesn't love hallucination! Oswald?  
> Tittle form White Eyes by The Wombats, which was the inspiration for this fic.  
> Comments are much appreciated!

Every raindrop makes his head hurt. The sky is firing cold bullets. His clothes are weighting down, trying to get him to trip and fall, down into the sewer, where he'd rot. Like Oswald.

The water in his mouth is salty.

Smart people stay at home when there's a storm. He doesn't have a home. Just himself and the empty streets. His glasses are wet and foggy so him not seeing people is a possibility, too. It's loud, all he hears is his breathing and the sound the ground makes when the the rain hits it. It sounds as distressed as he feels.

A voice, not unlike his own, has been screaming in his head but it's unintelligible, a white noise, ever since he fired the gun. He hoped it would stop after Oswald's body hit the water. No such luck. The last time he recalls his thoughts being organised and in his complete control was way before he found out (the penny dropped indead and made the ground crack); before he was even betrayed, he suspects, and what a shame it is to have looked for comfort where death and destruction come out of; before Kristen reappeared. He hid it then and he hides it to this day.

When Barbara waves her hand at him with a disdainful look on her face or when she starts touching his face without permission, his other half whispers in his ear she could lose a hand like Butch and Tabitha, or a liver, or a head.

When the other two start talking about all the horrible things they can't wait to do to him, his mind is blank.

Then he remembers the aftermath of a successful plan, mind at ease, sweet tea, a lended robe and a friend's embrace. The fireplace managed to muffle down all the city's noise. The thunder storms were quiter in the mansion. He marvelled at that.

He's in a hotel lobby right now and the storm is still audible. The ground floor windows chatter and the lights go out for a second as he makes his way to the reception. He doesn't have the right to judge when he is himself bring in a part of the storm. Leaving wet footsteps on the floor, dripping all the way up his single room.

He's undressing when the lights flicker again. They go off complitely with his tie and suit jacket. He walks in the dark, a cupboard meets him at the stomach and he nearly vomits on the spot.

A lighting. He reaches the bathroom. Collapses on the floor as the thunder follows suit. His breathing is laboured. Head spinning. The pills must be kicking in.

When he opens his eyes the lights are back on but his vision is darkened. A familiar laugh rings in his ears. Not his own.

A silhouette appears by the shower. Turns the water on, grabs the shower head off the holder and limps towards Ed.

Cold water hits his face.

He blinks. Hard. For a second he sees himself holding the shower head, next moment the figure is waving it around, splashing tap water everywhere.

It starts to form a shape, the figure, not the water, Edward coudn't mistake for another.

He is both impressed with and disgusted by his own imagination.

Oswald is standing before him. Dripping wet with a gunshot wound in his middle. His skin is greasy, lips pressed into a thin line, turning unmistakably blue. Ed's stunned on the floor, unable to form words. The hallucination drops the shower head and it lands next to Ed, starts soaking his trouser leg.

The illusion of Oswald starts laughing uncontrollably. If Edward closes his eyes he could imagine himself and his friend back at the old apartment, slightly tipsy and talking shit about James Gordon. He keeps them wide open. Tears burn in them as Oswald grabs his stomach, seemingly hurt by too much laughter. His fingers are wet with blood-mingled water when he works them on his buttons, first the suit jacket then the vest. Ed screams. Removes his glasses.

Back on his feet he stares down the figure. He is met with Oswald's livid eyes. These are a perfect copy of the authentic ones. Crystal clear as well.

"You're not real."

"Aren't I?" He takes a piece of algae off his shoulder and tosses it in the sink. Ed swears he hears the splash of it. His dead friend is coming closer. The air in the room gets chiller, smell of salt and death fills Edward's nostrils. He shakes his head. He's imagining it.

"I'm as real as you want me to be. Which appears to be a lot."

"I don't want you. I don't need you. I don't love you." Ed preaches like a mantra knowing it's not entirely true. He keeps a mental list of all the drugs he'd taken since the docks. Tonight's pill is number eleven. Most effective hallucinogen so far. He's not certain who he was hoping to see. Anyone to make him feel less lonely perhaps. A part of him knew who he'd needed to push him. Get him to finish his plans. 

"But I suppose you want and need and love her, correct?" Oswald laughs again. Chokes and couches out blood. Some of it runs down his chin. "So humor me, Ed, why am I here and not her?"

Good question. Edward tries to remeber the way she used to smile, blush at his compliments, chew on a pen while thinkng on the morning crossword. Tries to forget Oswald. Oswald smirking down at his enemies, toothy grins at Ed's remarks; Oswald in a fit of temper, bright red down to his collar, ears rosy pink after a hug; Oswald biting his nails when scheming, his lips if he decides to consider a riddle. Some things you can't unsee.

"Have you even seen her, huh?" For a second Ed is in a different bathroom. Larger and cleaner. Sun shining through a window, blue walls, tiny flower on the mirror. Kristen's hands around her neck, choked off words and accusations out of her mouth.

She was limited. Trapped inside the mirror. Oswald's hallucinatory form lacks a reflection. Edward sneacks glances at the mirror to convince himself he is alone. It's hard to believe when Oswald is standing a millimeter from him. Undamaged foot placed between his, hands behind his back, slightly bent forward, shaking his head slowly, drawing out the syllables.

"Noo, not her. The upgraded version. Isabella!" Something twists in Edward's gut. He didn't think he'd ever get to hear Oswald speak her name. Correctly that is. The hallucination smirks. And he has a point. Isabella was everything Kristen wasn't. Adored him and only him. Was eager to answer and pressent riddles. Was brave and demanding where he himself was unsure and timid. A dream he can't return to. Oswald is a recurring nightmare.

"No? Oh, I know. And don't try to tell me this was all about her." He mimicks Edward, taking out a box and swallowing down a couple of pills. The movement pulls his vest to the side and exposes the blood-soaked shirt underneath. "I know it when you lie to me, Ed." It's ironic how the wound wouldn't exist if only the real Oswald had known when Edward lied to him, led him into a trap. Love is blind they say.

"If it was for her you would have tried it a long time ago. I would have paid for it." Ed remembers Oswald, his dear friend, concerned about his depressed behaviour, wanting him desperately to get better, all the while he had been the one to cause it.

"Yeah fine, that was low. Still, me being here proves just what you're afraid to admit." Edward shakes his head, slides up the wall, away from the ghost of his late friendship. "That maybe... You. Miss. Me. More."

Ed's lips shape words he's deaf to, a series of _no, oh, dear, no, no, no, oh my_ 's.

For a split second the hallucination changes to look like Oswald had before. Mayor, _King_ of Gotham. 

"Are you hoping fate will lead you to another me as well. A better version. One that is made for you."

His appearance alters again. His hair is platinum blonde, his suit- light grey, tie- mint green. He smiles shyly when he asks:

"What's black and white and red all over?"

"A newspaper." Ed's response is automatic. Oswald yells, turning back into a dripping corpse.

"Wrooong! A penguin with a bullet wound." He is only in his shirt this time and he is ripping it open. The buttons turn to bullets as they hit the bathroom floor.

"You of all people should know." He hisses, saliva almost hitting Edward's face. He sobs. Closes his eyes.

"Oswald, please."

"I begged you, too, and what did you do?" Oswald slams his hand on the wall next to Edward's head.

"I had to." He jumps in his place, whispers, _pleads_.

"That's what you did!" Oswald ignores him, both hands clutching to his stomach now, blood is leeking from between his greyish fingers, discoloured nails dig at the skin, tear it open.

Edward feels light-headed. Unable to bear the image for much longer he looks up at Oswald's face, Oswald's hallucination's face, he reminds himself. It peers back at him with much less anger and vengeance. Eyebrows relaxed, half open eyes with droplets of water on the ends of his lashes, pale now, the mascara washed off, smeared under the eyes, encircling them in black. Watery blood drips down his chin, which he rises up, meets Ed's gaze and smirks as the sound of his insides hitting the bathroom tiles makes Edward tense and shivering.

"Please, _please_ , stop!"

"You thought I didn't have a heart, right, Ed, you wanna see it now?" Oswald bends forward a bit, puts his arm nearly elbow deep into his own body. Moves it inside his ribcage. Ed screams at him.

"No, no! I know you have, I'm _begging_ you, don't!"

"I was beating for you once and it stopped. Because of you."

"I know..." Ed falls to the floor, curls into a ball, hot tears running down his face. He hears Oswald crouching down to his level, sighing sadly.

"Oh, Ed." He caresses Edward's hair, only he doesn't because he's not real, he's _dead_.

Another thunder strikes, this time he's not warned by a lighting. In the dark Oswald's whisper sounds times louder.

"Me being dead is going to hurt you more than benefit you."

He's gone when the lights go back on. Ed's alone. And hollow inside.

**Author's Note:**

> It rains for no reason  
> In this heart that lacks heart.  
> What? And no treason?  
> It’s grief without reason.
> 
> By far the worst pain,  
> Without hatred, or love,  
> Yet no way to explain  
> Why my heart feels such pain!  
>  \- Paul Verlaine / IT RAINS IN MY HEART


End file.
